Saturday, July 9, 2016

Mom and Dad were vacationing in Montana with their three small children.

As they drove past the Deer Lodge prison, Dad tried to explain to four-year old Chris and two-year-old Jerry just what it was. He told them that when people were bad, the police would lock them up in the big building for punishment.

The original ‘time-out’.

He wasn’t sure just how much of his explanation his two oldest children took in.

The next morning, he had his answer.

The family had stopped nearby for breakfast. While they were eating, a deputy sheriff came in for coffee, then proceeded to tell the waiter about his exciting evening:

One very intoxicated individual had been disruptive at a local dance and the deputy took the man to the local jail to sober up. There were no charges to be laid, so all that remained was to get the fellow up and send him home.

Throughout this story, Chris and Jerry were busily eating, not seeming to pay attention to the tale.

Finally, the man stood up and said, “Well, I guess I’d better go down and get my boy out of jail!”

Chris looked at her parents wide-eyed and very concerned. “That man’s little boy is down there in that big jail!” she said loudly.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

Their home was humble. Built in 1917, they raised
eight children and lived to 1948 without electricity or running water.

They weren’t the best housekeepers. Their home with
its worn floorboards and non-existent screens (allowing the entrance of many
bugs and even the odd chicken) was often known as ‘Fly Spec Inn’.

But the love and kindness shone out of every crack
and every chink in the siding.

Their children loved to return there.

And, if a guest should drop by . . .

Mom and Dad had been married a few months. Dad had
introduced his new bride to every family in the district, save one. Their
nearest neighbours eight miles to the west.

He decided the time was right, so the two of them
climbed into the car and made the trip.

They were welcomed with open arms.

Quite literally.

Invited to stop and yarn a while.

Then pressed to stay for supper.

The youngest daughter set the table. Then, at the
urging of her mother, re-set with the ‘company cups’. Which, as it turned out,
were the cups without the black lip stains from constant use and less-than-stellar
cleaning.

The food was hot and plentiful.

Bread came fresh from the oven in a massive, round
loaf.

If one asked for a slice, one got a SLICE. Mama
would grab the loaf, hold it against her round belly and cut away with a large
knife. Then, using the same knife, she would flip the wedge across the table to
whoever had asked.

Her precision was unerring. And her grin when
successful exposed toothless gums all the way back to the spaces left by absent
molars.

It was a memorable meal. Memorable for all the right
reasons. Not for the ‘fly specs’ or the missing screens or the worn
floorboards, or even for the lacking electricity and running water. No, it was
memorable for the kindness. The cheer. The love.

A few months later, that home was improved and
enlarged to accommodate its becoming the community Post Office.

Though Mom and Dad invited the family over many
times, they never went back.

Young cowboys on a big spread are often the butt of jokes pulled by the older, more experienced hands.

Dad, though he was the boss’ son, was no exception.

He and a schoolmate, Ruel, were invited to go with a couple of the men on a ‘snipe hunt’.

The snipe, they were told, was a bird that lived in the coulees around the ranch. It was very tasty, if you could nab one. But there was the problem. Snipes were tricky creatures. They only had one weakness--they were mesmerised by a light at night. Ordinarily, they stayed still when darkness fell, but if disturbed, would fly toward said light. The trick was to have someone wait quietly, holding a bag next to a lantern and, when the birds were stirred up, catch them as they flew to the light.

Slick.

The boys were excited to be included on this fun hunting trip. They rode behind the two older hands and took up a position at the mouth of the coulee, bag and lantern in hand. Then they waited while the riders circled around to the other end to ride down the coulee, driving the tasty little snipes ahead of them and straight to the waiting sack and certain doom.

They waited for over two hours.

Finally deciding that something had gone terribly wrong, the two boys gave up and walked the two miles back to the ranch. When they reached the barn, they discovered the horses the two older hands had been riding, safely tucked up for the night.

Only then did they realize they’d been had.

They toyed with the idea of hiding in the hay loft and getting the rest of the men stirred up when they didn’t show up for breakfast. They even went so far as to sleep in the loft, snuggled down cozily in the soft, fragrant hay. But the enthusiastic swinging of a pitchfork early the next morning as one of the hands fed the horses convinced them that they should appear or risk being skewered.

They stood up and endured the general laugh at their expense.

Grampa Stringam was disgusted. “How could you fall for something like that?!” he demanded.

It had been embarrassingly easy, so Dad said nothing.

Sometimes, ranching isn’t about the cows.

But being cowed.

P.S. The snipe is a real bird, living along watercourses throughout the world. It is notoriously hard to catch and the person who could actually shoot one would be known as a 'sniper'. Thus the name for a skilled gunman.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .